Blue Eyes
by Smeagolia
Summary: "This is my first entry in the diary Mother gave me. For her sake I'll try as hard as I can to write in here as much as possible. " Take a peek into one of our favorite Death Eaters' minds as a child; Narcissa Black.
1. Chapter 1

**August 25, 1966**

This is my first entry in the diary Mother gave me. For her sake I'll try as hard as I can to write in here as much as possible.

Today was Mother's birthday so my sisters Bellatrix, Adromeda and I made flower crowns from the daisies in the garden outside our manor. Droma taught the house elves the "happy birthday" song to sing around the house while they worked. Dromeda is so creative and fun like that. Sometimes she reminds me of a sun, leaving a trail of golden laughter wherever she goes. Bella went into town with Father and bought a spool of green tread that shimmered when you moved it. She sewed a snake for Slytherin into one of Mother's handkerchiefs.

Mother says Bellatrix and I are a lot like our father in that way, we're very proud of our heritage. I can't say I'm not, Father told me that pureblood wizards are like royalty, they are the most elegant, powerful, and important. He also taught us never to spend to much time with mudbloods. They don't deserve the title of wizards, he says. They have the smallest amount of magic anyone could, but they still call themselves one of us. It's like only knowing the alphabet that bragging that you can read a novel, like cheating almost. Purebloods like us don't belong in their company.

Anyway, I wrote a poem for Mother's birthday. I really like to write poems, it's my hobby you could say. Writing poems seems like the easiest way to express your feelings, and the best part is that it doesn't even have to make sense, unlike most other things. I'm good at writing poetry too, according to Mother. Whenever I write a poem, Mother always hides it away in her jewelry box where Father will never find it.

Father says poetry is a silly waste of time, and we could be doing other things that will actually make us successful in life. Sometimes I want to point out that if I get good enough at this, I could actually make a living out of it, not like I would need the money, the wealthy purebloods we are. Father disapproves of a lot of things my sisters and I do, and I can't say he's always fair. He scolds us for combing Mother's antique doll's hair just for fun, or pretending to go to balls in the garden to just to silly, with Droma playing her violin and Bella and I spinning till we're dizzy. I know he just wants us to grow up to proper pureblood witches but I wish he would understand teenagers just want to be goofy and have fun sometimes.

After dinner Mother announced she had gifts for Bella, Droma and I. She called us into her room to speak privately with us one at a time, oldest to youngest, so I was last. Bellatrix went in and came out maybe 10 or 15 minutes later. She has clutching something tightly to her chest but her pale arms and think dark curls were blocking it from view. Her strong jaw was set and she stared straight ahead but I could see her eyes her soft and thoughtful.

Bella reminds me of a hurricane. She's a whirlwind of thunder and lightning, except for a calm spot reserved only for a very few, probably me and Mother alone.

Adromeda went in next and emerged again with a determined face, like she had a mission, but her chocolate brown eyes were full of crystal tears, threatening to spill, and her lip quivered.

Mother called me in the, ad remember every detail as if it were happening as I write. I entered cautiously, thinking about my sisters' expressions when they left. I sat down next to her on the king-size bed she shares with Father, the bed Mother used to let us jump on when Father was out when we were little. Mother was wearing the emerald green dress she got for Christmas and her dark hair was done up with a couple curls tumbling to her collarbone. Crumpled in one hand was the handkerchief Bella gave her, already damp, and Mother's mascara ran in cruel slashes down her pale cheeks.

Mother was very pretty, all Blacks were, but Mother was different. Her features were softer, like a dove in contrast to the eagles that were the rest of us. Adromeda was probably the only one who inherited any of Mother's delicate features, but I always felt that I was most connected to Mother. I take pride to say that Mother and I are the only Blacks in this household with blue eyes. It made me feel like shared something special just us.

In Mother's other hand she held a little rectangular box wrapped in shimmering blue paper with a sliver ribbon tied in a bow. Her pale hands shook and her mouth twitched like she was about to burst into tears when she smiled at me.

"What is it, Mother?" I whispered, almost worried a loud voice would shatter her. She took a shaky breath and grinned at me.

"Before I give you your present, I want to show you something." She jumped up with the excitement of someone years younger and rushed to the grand piano in the corner. Mother slid onto the bench and beckoned for me to come sit with her. I slid in after her as she shuffled a pile of sheet music, pulling one out and smoothing down some wrinkles.

Mother set her long piano fingers lightly upon the keys and began playing, singing along like a lovely bird, and recognized the words immediately.

_Blue eyes of young and old_

_Freeze with grey_

_And melt with gold._

_Sky blue orbs reflect each other,_

_One side daughter, one side mother._

_Fingers dip into liquid water,_

_Connecting minds, _

_Connecting daughter._

_Hearts jump out,_

_In warm embrace,_

_Dance on ice,_

_With unreal grace._

_Through my eyes I see silver,_

_Reflecting happiness's yellow,_

_Envy's green,_

_The orange of mellow._

_But her eyes remain in light,_

_Bolted down,_

_Strong in every fight._

_Sky blue orbs reflect each other_

_One side daughter, one side mother._

_Steel rope, pull them tight_

_Connecting minds_

_Connecting sight._

It was a poem I wrote about a month ago, Blue Eyes I called it. I never intended it to be any thing more than another random poem I wrote about Mother and I when inspiration struck me. But Mother made it sound like a professional songwriter spent months perfecting it. Her voice was liquid music, golden and sweet, and the notes she wrote herself to go along was like splashing silver. It was the most beautiful thing I ever heard!

"What do you think?" Mother had asked eagerly. "I've been working on it every night. I just adored this poem and thought it deserved music to go along with it." I remember throwing my arms around her and tearing up to think she worked so hard to surprise me, after all she already does.

"Oh, Mother! I love it more than words can say!" I cried. I felt her arms go around me and we stayed like that for a long time. After a while I felt Mother shake with sobs and hot tears fell on my shoulder. She pulled back and her blue eyes pierced deep into mine, but not in a chilling way, it was warm and reassuring, because I knew she was watching over me.

She touched my cheek and whispered, voice thick with emotion, "My Cissa, my beautiful blue eyed Cissa," I felt tears form in my eyes for the second, third time tonight? I'd lost count.

"I love you." The first droplet fell when she spoke those simple, yet powerful three words. Mother stood slowly and walked to the bed, lifting up the rectangle wrapped present.

"I want to be there for you forever, I want to teach you, praise you, lead you, watch you grow up and see what an amazing woman you become. I want you to know that I will always, always love you. Always." She looked down with a heavy sigh.

"But… I can't. I fear the truth, but I owe it to you." She turned to look mournfully at me now, and my lip quivered. For the first time I saw past the pretty, young-at-heart face, and saw the wrinkles of age and the grey roots in her hair.

"I feel it. My time is coming. I don't know when, or how, but I know its coming."

At first I didn't understand. "Mother what do you mean?" It alarmed me, the sadness and regret in her eyes, the fear in my voice.

Then it hit me.

She was going to die. I shook my head violently; tears racing angrily down my cheeks. "No no no no no no no! Mother you can't!" I sobbed and we rushed towards each other. I clung to her dress, and she clung to mine.

"Shh child." She crooned. She rocked me back and forth and stroked my hair while I cried. I still cannot believe it. It all feels surreal. I knew should would die someday, everyone will, but death is an unreal thing. We know it will happen but it still feels impossible. I feel a poem coming on.

Mother reached for the little wrapped box, still gripping me with one hand. "Shh, Cissa, quiet now. Let me give you my gift." She said, taking me hand in hers and placing the box in it. I looked down at the silver rectangle in my hands, my vision blurry with tears. Mother rubbed my back soothingly as she spoke.

"When I'm gone, I want you to still have someone to talk to, to share your feeling and secrets with, to confide in. So I got you and your sisters each one of these. I know its not the same as a person, but I'd hate myself forever, even in Heaven, if I knew I left you with nothing. Open it."

Very slowly and carefully I turned it over and ripped at the delicate paper. Please excuse my handwriting at this part, while I write my tears keep blotting the ink and my hand is shaking.

I pulled aside the wrapping paper and ribbon and beneath was a little white and grey book, very fancy and leather bound and good quality. It was this book that I'm writing in now! Inside was a hundred or two blank pages, screaming to be marked.

"Thank you so much." I sighed, hugging Mother tight. "I promise to write in it almost everyday. I love you."

She smiled, teary eyed. "I'm so glad." She whispered. She kissed me on the cheeks and gave me a pat on the back. I stood up, hugging my new diary to my chest and started towards the door.

"I love you, Cissa." I heard Mother murmur as I left.

There. The story of this diary and my first entry. I hear Father coming to scold me for "wasting my time on foolishness," so that's all for now. See you tomorrow my diary!


	2. Chapter 2

**August 26, 1965**

_A single candle lights the room,_

_Break the black, _

_Kill the gloom._

_Evil wind blows through,_

_Chill the bone,_

_Create a tomb._

_Choke the light,_

_Black as night._

_I surrender to the fight._

I've been feeling restless and depressed. I can't concentrate on anything, and I find myself constantly checking on Mother, just to make sure she hasn't dropped dead.

Bella's locked herself in her room, and I heard something smash against the wall when I passed. I hope it wasn't Mother's good china! Droma's pounding away on the piano, forcing some loud, mournful song out of the keys. I can tell she's in a stormy mood; usually her music is careful and delicate.

I hate feeling like this! I don't feel like writing, doing poetry, talking, walking, eating, thinking, sleeping, ANYTHING! The only thing I almost feel like doing is throwing china. Almost.

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**A/N: Please review! I know that's what everyone says but if you think of a way I can make my writing better, please don't hesitate to tell me! I want to be an author but I'll never get there if I don't get some feedback! **

**Also, if you think of way that I could make my summary more gripping, I need some help, it feels bland right now.**


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